HeroicStorieshttps://heroicstories.org
Restoring faith in humanity - one story at a timeMon, 13 Aug 2018 15:00:16 +0000en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.9.8Begun in 1999, HeroicStories brings diverse, international voices to the world – reminding us that people are good, that individuals and individual action matter. Our mission is to publish examples of people being good to each other, to inspire similar heroic actions in others.HeroicStoriesHeroicStoriesapl@notenboom.orgapl@notenboom.org (HeroicStories)Restoring faith in humanity ... one story at a time.HeroicStorieshttp://cdn.heroicstories.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/ituneslogo.pnghttps://heroicstories.org
Please Let Us Helphttps://heroicstories.org/please-let-us-help/
Mon, 13 Aug 2018 15:00:16 +0000https://heroicstories.org/?p=5899https://heroicstories.org/please-let-us-help/#respondhttps://heroicstories.org/please-let-us-help/feed/0<p>A website generously offers to help Katrina victims and matches up small heroes with families who lost their homes. </p>
<p><a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org/please-let-us-help/">Please Let Us Help</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org">HeroicStories</a>.<br />
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Sponsored by <a href="https://askleo.com" rel="nofollow">askleo.com</a>. Support: <a href="https://askleo.com" rel="nofollow">http://go.askleo.com/patreon</a></p>A website generously offers to help Katrina victims and matches up small heroes with families who lost their homes.
Nevada, USA

When Hurricane Katrina hit the Louisiana coast twice on August 29, 2005, I, like many worldwide, was glued to news of the horrific devastation. As I watched, my heart went out to ordinary people losing *everything* in the storm. Where would they go? What would they do? How could they rebuild their lives?
I wondered, what if it had been me instead? What if disaster had struck my area? How would I, my friends and family cope? As I saw families separated by rescue efforts, my heart went out to them. Could I help?
Searching online, I found MoveOn.org had created “HurricaneHousing.org” — to match displaced Katrina victims with families offering housing. Thousands upon thousands of people from around the USA were offering to take in Katrina survivors!
Clicking on “Housing Offered”, I read (entries condensed): “PLEASE LET US HELP. Housing for 2. Extra bedroom, our children grown. Couple, single parent or two H.S. seniors worried about graduating. (Have hosted exchange students.) We smoke, have cats.”
And: “Housing for 2 children in my apartment. Will enroll in school with grandson, 12, who lives with me. My son will assist in transportation, caregiving. Grandson will help make them welcome until their families located. Plan temporary, but if permanent needed, would look at.”
By now I was crying, but kept reading: “Family of three will host family of 2-4. 2 furnished bedrooms on second story, no charge. Great place for fresh start, many jobs. Walking distance to three schools, all grades, mall, grocery, 2 parks. Have three dogs; all pets welcome except cats… son’s allergic. Fenced backyard with pool, trampoline. Require signed release of responsibility in case of injury. Questions welcome. Please call, we’d love to have you here!”
“Housing for 4 in working-class family. If you want to relocate, my wife and I will help you as long as it takes. Person working in trades great, I could put them to work immediately. Will help someone who’ll help themselves. It’s a long way from home, but we’ll figure out how to get you here, if we need to drive down or pay your air fare.”
“Housing for 3. My wife and I offer all amenities. As parent of 3 grown children, my heart grieves seeing small children homeless in New Orleans. Prefer single mother with 1-2 children. Will help get kindergarten, work… interacial couple so race no issue.”
“Housing for 6. 3-bedroom, 2-bath home, quiet cul-de-sac. No furniture, will furnish for family. Nice yards. I’m owner, it’s empty, will bless a family with 3 months free housing.”
This is who we humans truly are. People who make offers like: “Air fare for *four*.” “Grandson will help children adjust.” “Furniture for family of six.” We should be proud, that we’re compassionate enough to create a web site like HurricaneHousing.org.
And I’m relieved. For I know if disaster strikes my area, similar web sites will arise, and our fellow humans will reach out to offer us everything we need to begin anew.]]>HeroicStories4:54The Willimantic Waitresshttps://heroicstories.org/the-willimantic-waitress/
Fri, 10 Aug 2018 15:00:54 +0000https://heroicstories.org/?p=5901https://heroicstories.org/the-willimantic-waitress/#commentshttps://heroicstories.org/the-willimantic-waitress/feed/1<p>A waitress provides regular dinners for two little hungry children. </p>
<p><a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org/the-willimantic-waitress/">The Willimantic Waitress</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org">HeroicStories</a>.<br />
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California, USA

My husband and I had been married just a short time when he was discharged from the Air Force after four years service in the early 1960s. We didn’t have much money to live on, let alone extra money for entertainment or dining out. Times were tough for us. He was a new hire on the local police force, and we were settling in to civilian life in his small hometown of Willimantic, Connecticut.
We liked a local diner with good food, good prices, and an ambience of friendliness and warmth. We saved our Change each week so that we could have one night out for dinner, either Friday or Saturday, at the diner.
One Friday night I drew my husband’s attention to two very small children, raggedly dressed, sitting alone in a diner booth. They were 4 to 6 years old, a boy and a younger girl. Perhaps their mother was in the restroom. As the minutes passed, I noticed the children still alone, being served plates of the Friday night diner special: beef stew.
The waitress was a chubby, personable woman whose laughter was easy to get caught up in. She was in her mid to late 50s, the grandmotherly type. We began to talk that night, and I asked her where the children’s mom or dad could be.
She said the children came into the diner every evening with 5 cents each, held in their little fists. Their father was long gone, and the mother was a town drunk among other things. The mother told the kids each evening to go buy themselves something… and offered no food at her place, the waitress had learned.
The waitress had discovered these children huddled on the street corner one evening a couple years earlier, hungry and all alone, poorly dressed for the winter months. So she brought them into the diner. During her evening shift six nights a week, she took as payment the 5 cents from each child — and gave them their only meal of the day. She also gave them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to tide them over the weekend.
Our hearts were broken. We began leaving extra money with the waitress to help take care of the children. We also hit thrift stores and brought in coats, boots and clothing. It was as much as we could afford.
Other patrons began leaving items for the children, too. The owner of the diner was not thrilled with the whole idea, but didn’t interfere with the waitress and the customers of his diner.
We lived in that town for 3 and one-half years, and as the children got older and into school, they got help with their homework from many customers at the diner.
I have never forgotten that waitress. I don’t remember the name of the diner or the waitress, but I hope those two small children were able to grow up healthy and feeling loved.]]>HeroicStories4:01Saying Goodbye to Sparkyhttps://heroicstories.org/saying-goodbye-sparky/
Mon, 06 Aug 2018 15:00:49 +0000https://heroicstories.org/?p=5909https://heroicstories.org/saying-goodbye-sparky/#commentshttps://heroicstories.org/saying-goodbye-sparky/feed/2<p>A good friend helps take a beloved dog to the vet for the last time. </p>
<p><a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org/saying-goodbye-sparky/">Saying Goodbye to Sparky</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org">HeroicStories</a>.<br />
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California, USA

Fifteen years ago, I met someone who became one of my best friends and most loyal companions. He was a little black ball of fur that my family named Sparky. When grown, he looked like a big black Labrador retriever with unusually short legs. Sparky was a special mutt, a faithful guardian to my family. He was gentle and patient with our three children; the four of them grew up together.
At long last Sparky had reached the age of 105 in human years. Sparky’s formerly good health began to fail quickly. Then, for two days he could not stand up; one of his legs had become paralyzed. We had to bring food and water to his mouth.
Sparky had to be carried, but he was in so much pain that it hurt me to move him. His pain pills for arthritis didn’t help much any more. I knew the dreaded time had come to take Sparky to the vet for the last time, but he was so big it would be difficult to get him there alone.
I called my friend Ian to see if he would help carry Sparky to the vet’s office. Even though it meant taking time off from work, Ian didn’t hesitate to help. He even offered to drive his car, knowing how messy a very weak dog can be.
When Ian arrived the next morning, we tried to lift Sparky, but he was in too much pain for us to lift him in our arms. Somehow, Sparky managed to stand up and limp to the car on three legs that still barely worked. We struggled to find a way to lift him into the back of Ian’s SUV.
Ian suggested putting a towel under Sparky’s belly with his front legs dangling on one side and his rear legs dangling from the other. It worked, and it seemed to cause Sparky less pain.
We drove to the vet. Luckily, Ian had brought along a big, heavy dog blanket. We were able to ease Sparky carefully onto the blanket, roll up the sides and carry him into the vet’s office.
Ian stayed with me through it all. He was even there with me helping to soothe Sparky in his final moments of life. The vet had difficulty finding a vein, and very little fluid had been injected when he said Sparky was already gone. He said it was as though Sparky had already decided it was time to go.
I will never forget the kindness that Ian showed in helping a friend out during a painful time. I’m blessed to have such a friend in my life.]]>HeroicStories3:30The Plumbing Truck Driverhttps://heroicstories.org/plumbing-truck-driver/
Fri, 03 Aug 2018 15:00:00 +0000https://heroicstories.org/?p=5897https://heroicstories.org/plumbing-truck-driver/#commentshttps://heroicstories.org/plumbing-truck-driver/feed/2<p>A plumbing truck stops at a busy intersection as a little boy runs out into traffic... signaling to everyone else to stay stopped!</p>
<p><a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org/plumbing-truck-driver/">The Plumbing Truck Driver</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org">HeroicStories</a>.<br />
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Minnesota, USA

I didn’t see the child… I didn’t see anything at all except a plumbing and heating truck at a complete stop, on the opposite side of this busy street. It’s a small town in Minnesota, with a park that’s divided into two parts by a street. That street is an issue in our town; the park is gated and fenced for safety because of it.
The truck coming from the opposite direction was a good distance from the crosswalk between the two parks. I stopped… because he stopped. Checking the streets and crosswalk, I saw no one. I stayed stopped… because he stayed stopped.
Traffic that was headed for fast food lunches on this day in April 2006, was backing up behind me, as well as backing up behind him. We don’t experience traffic backups often in our little town.
A gasp caught in my throat when I finally saw what the truck driver saw. As if in slow motion, I saw a child, appearing not yet to be 3 years old, smiling and unaware of danger. Without being noticed, he had escaped the fenced park and was running playfully onto the roadway. With ease the little boy could have reached out and touched the grillwork on the stopped truck.
The man in the truck watched as a red-faced, frantic young mother raced into the street. The child, enjoying the game with his mother, merrily turned and ran the other way in the bright sunshine — toward the middle of the street.
The man in the truck was now quickly out of his truck, like a linebacker with his feet planted and arms spread. The boy was rapidly surveying his options: his mother on one side, an imposing linebacker on the other.
The choice was easy. The little guy went rushing into the arms of his mother. I exhaled as the mother and child reunion took place, and the man got back into his truck.
With the child back in the safety of his mother’s arms, I turned the corner onto Tenth Avenue, my eyes clouded with tears.
There was a young mother that day who had the privilege of taking her child home, whole and intact. There was a little boy, able to grow up. There was a plumbing and heating man who will rest well tonight, knowing that today he saved the life a child.
Then there were the rest of us — the ones who witnessed an enormous act of kindness. People from my little town’ people who sat and watched someone save a life. Not one horn honked, not one driver yelled out of a rolled-down window — we all calmly and patiently helped save a life that day. The statement, “It takes a whole community to raise a child”, means more to me today than it did before I encountered that truck driver.]]>HeroicStories4:11A Language of Their Ownhttps://heroicstories.org/a-language-of-their-own/
Mon, 30 Jul 2018 15:00:15 +0000https://heroicstories.org/?p=5907https://heroicstories.org/a-language-of-their-own/#commentshttps://heroicstories.org/a-language-of-their-own/feed/1<p>Two young girls, who speak different languages, manage to become friends and have a lot of fun on their vacation. </p>
<p><a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org/a-language-of-their-own/">A Language of Their Own</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org">HeroicStories</a>.<br />
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New York, USA

My 8-year-old daughter Briana and I try to visit my mother in Florida every summer for at least a week — even though it’s hotter there than where we live in New York. That’s where we were in August of 2004.
My mom’s condo has a huge pool framed with palm trees on the Intracoastal waterway, so of course there are always a few children splashing around in it. Briana always looks forward to making new friends down at the pool while we are there.
The first day we were there, Briana and I walked to the pool hand in hand. I picked a lounge chair that had a full view of the pool and sat myself down to read a magazine and sun myself. I watched out of the corner of my eye as Briana, an excellent swimmer, swam around by herself.
Then at one point, I looked up and saw her gesturing to another little girl around her age. As they played together in the pool, diving under the water and laughing, I saw them gesturing to each other again and again. I assumed the girl was deaf.
Soon the girl offered a bag of potato chips for Briana to share. Briana then motioned to her to follow her to the drinking fountain. The whole afternoon was spent with the two girls gesturing and laughing together.
Even though other families had come to the pool with children near 8 years of age, the other kids had all stayed in the shallow end. Because Briana’s new friend was also a very good swimmer, they were able to swim together from one end of the pool to the other.
I smiled to myself that my daughter always found it so easy to make friends, no matter where we were or what the circumstances. They played with each other and with the girl’s brother all afternoon in the hot Florida sun.
When the sun began to set families began to leave the pool area. As we got ready to go and Briana was drying off, I asked her if the girl was, in fact, deaf. She replied “No,” the girl was on vacation from Russia and didn’t speak any English.
The two girls played together the whole week we were there, laughing and gesturing and making themselves understood. I was so proud of my daughter, and thought how the world of adults might imitate their example. Instead of letting a little thing like language keep them from making a friend, Briana and this girl enjoyed a week together by making up a “language” they could both understand.]]>HeroicStories3:39Waiting in the Darkhttps://heroicstories.org/waiting-in-the-dark/
Fri, 27 Jul 2018 15:00:49 +0000https://heroicstories.org/?p=5911https://heroicstories.org/waiting-in-the-dark/#respondhttps://heroicstories.org/waiting-in-the-dark/feed/0<p>A small group of workers sit and wait in the dark with this volunteer until her husband can get back to town. </p>
<p><a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org/waiting-in-the-dark/">Waiting in the Dark</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org">HeroicStories</a>.<br />
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Missouri, USA

My husband, Richard, and I go to rural Nicaragua as volunteers to drill water wells with an organization called Rainbow Network. Rainbow Network is a Christian ministry that provides healthcare, education, micro-business development loans, and housing for rural Nicaraguans. These people live in extreme poverty and hardship. One trip we worked building a small group of little houses, several miles from the nearest little town on a dirt road.
One day Richard and our interpreter took the truck into Managua to purchase more water pipe. During their absence, I simply joined eight Nicaraguans in hand digging foundations for the little concrete block houses that would replace their dirt-floor shacks.
I communicated mostly with smiles and gestures while trying to pick out a few familiar Spanish words. I knew these people only a little. One day I’d gone with Raquel to fix lunch for her children and her sick father over a fire of sticks.
Richard planned to return in a couple hours, about 3:00 p.m. As 4:30 approached, the unfamiliar labor took its toll, and I returned to the tool shed to wait. No one wears a watch in Nicaragua because people who don’t have enough food for their children can’t afford a watch. Besides, time is less meaningful when there are more ox carts than trucks on the washed-out dirt roads.
I knew the workers would soon quit to walk home before the 6:00 p.m. darkness. As I waited, Raquel brought her shovel and sat down on the board to talk. We’d taught each other new words all day. Knowing her family awaited their supper, and with storm clouds moving across the western sky, I tried to communicate I wasn’t afraid to wait alone. Plus, I’d asked Pedro, the sixth grader we’d hired to help with drilling, to keep me company.
I began to wonder about my husband and the interpreter at the 5:30 p.m. sunset. Other workers put their tools away and sat down to “talk”. As the sun set, we shared the pronunciation for words like “moon” and “stars” in Spanish and English.
By 7:00 p.m., I knew their families were waiting and perhaps worrying as I was. But they were relaxed and simply comfortable together in the darkness, seeming to enjoy the simple game of teaching me Spanish.
I’ve come to understand the gentle openness of rural Nicaraguan families. But I’d never seen them as warmly protective as they were while we passed the time until — shortly after 7:00 p.m. — headlights approached. Managua, a city of millions, is accessed via two-lane roads; the pipe-laden truck had been snarled in never-ending highway construction.
The extra hands quickly unloaded the pipe, and my gentle hosts quietly dispersed to start their walk home in the dark. I was in the midst of an endeavor to help them. Yet these beautiful, rural Nicaraguans had blessed me with the gifts of their time and graciousness.
EDITOR’S NOTE: The author refers you to: www.rainbownetwork.org]]>HeroicStories4:34Home at Lasthttps://heroicstories.org/home-at-last/
Mon, 23 Jul 2018 15:00:25 +0000https://heroicstories.org/?p=5925https://heroicstories.org/home-at-last/#commentshttps://heroicstories.org/home-at-last/feed/2<p>Home owners help a struggling family buy a home through a great rent to buy agreement... and tons of kindness. </p>
<p><a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org/home-at-last/">Home at Last</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org">HeroicStories</a>.<br />
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Alabama, USA

In 1997 my new husband and I, and my two daughters from a previous marriage (honey, you’re a *great* “instant Dad”) found a house in Alabama. We loved it — but it was for sale, not for rent. We couldn’t buy a house at the time because we lacked the up-front funds, and we had a poor credit history.
Through a friend I got the owner’s phone number and asked them to reconsider renting the house on a “rent to own” contract. This was acceptable to them, so we moved in. We paid our rent on time, every time.
The deal we had made with the owners was that we had two years to get the house financed into our names. If we failed, the deal would be void and we would lose the extra $125.00 a month that we were paying toward closing costs.
We both had been married twice before and had unsettled debts from those marriages which made it hard to get a loan. Indeed, because of our bad credit we could not find a bank to finance us. But when the two years was up, instead of the owners using the agreement to turn us out, they re-established the “rent to own” contract on a year-to-year basis.
Four years after we started the contract, we started working with a new loan company. We submitted tons of life-history paperwork and finally, in April of 2001, this company said they could help! Everything sounded great until the very last minute when the broker called and said we needed to bring $1,773 to the closing.
We had been working on this diligently for five months! I nearly went into tears as I told him we would just have to forget it because I did not have that kind of money to pay out. Worse, the broker had told us we would actually be getting some cash back. So we were not prepared to hear this. My heart sank as I told him we would just have to wait.
The next thing I knew, I got a call to go to the lawyer’s office to close on the house. The owners had forfeited $1,773 out of their profits from the sale and applied it all to our closing and insurance costs. So everything came out even.
We are now homeowners! This is the most wonderfully kind and generous thing anyone has ever done for us. We will forever be grateful for what they did, and hold them in our hearts as part of our family. Thank you, Mike and Jeri, we will never forget you!]]>HeroicStories4:09Faceless Man on a Mountain Roadhttps://heroicstories.org/faceless-man-mountain-road/
Fri, 20 Jul 2018 15:00:46 +0000https://heroicstories.org/?p=5921https://heroicstories.org/faceless-man-mountain-road/#commentshttps://heroicstories.org/faceless-man-mountain-road/feed/1<p>Two women in a U-Haul truck run into trouble with their brakes and are guided through thick traffic by a stranger.</p>
<p><a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org/faceless-man-mountain-road/">Faceless Man on a Mountain Road</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org">HeroicStories</a>.<br />
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Maryland, USA

I finished graduate school in the summer of 1984. A few days later, my roommate, my dog and I were driving a large U-Haul truck from Provo, Utah, to Washington, D.C., where I hoped to get a job. Everything my friend and I owned was in that U-Haul, plus my car was towed behind it.
We got to the outskirts of Denver about rush hour and I was coming down a steep grade in stop-and-go traffic when the brakes started burning. Lots of black smoke was coming out of my wheels. I had no idea how much longer I would have brakes. I was absolutely horrified.
Worse, I was driving in a highway construction zone, so there was no shoulder to pull over into. To my right was just a line of orange barrels. Beyond that was a meager couple of yards to a drop off — with a long way to the bottom down a steep rocky mountainside. If my brakes gave way, there was nowhere to go but right into the back of the guy in front of me.
The guy in the pickup truck before me somehow let me know that he knew I was in trouble — and that he would use his brakes to help stop me if I lost mine. It would be a gosh-awful mess, but he wasn’t going to let me down. I can’t express how much that reassurance meant to me.
Given the amount of combined weight between the full U-Haul and my car, his truck would have undoubtedly been destroyed. He would have been injured seriously, perhaps even worse. He had to have known that.
It would have been smart for him to get out of our way and let us chance smacking into someone else. But he stayed right in front of us, giving me as much room as he could manage, for as long as I needed it. Moreover, his eyes smiled reassurance in his rearview mirror.
Soon we hit a more level road, traffic started moving better, and the danger passed. But boy was it tense for a while!
I never got to thank him personally. I never even saw his face, other than a glimpse of his eyes in his mirror and his hand waving goodbye when he knew we were going to be all right. Periodically, I still wish good fortune to the man in the pickup who offered to put himself in harm’s way to save two women in a runaway U-Haul.
It’s been almost 20 years and that one selfless act still deeply inspires me. I only hope that if I’m ever called upon to do something that grand, that I’ll come through just like the man in the truck did.]]>HeroicStories4:00The Three French Gendarmeshttps://heroicstories.org/three-french-gendarmes/
Mon, 16 Jul 2018 15:00:27 +0000https://heroicstories.org/?p=5917https://heroicstories.org/three-french-gendarmes/#respondhttps://heroicstories.org/three-french-gendarmes/feed/0<p>A long distance friend attempts suicide and a team of French Gendarmes take the time to understand the emergency and save her life. </p>
<p><a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org/three-french-gendarmes/">The Three French Gendarmes</a> appeared first on <a rel="nofollow" href="https://heroicstories.org">HeroicStories</a>.<br />
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Florida, USA

February 4th, 2003, I received a phone call from a friend who lives in France. She was in the middle of a very messy divorce. That day her soon-to-be ex-husband had removed every penny from their bank accounts — including the account set up for her small business. My friend felt she couldn’t go on, told me she’d just taken 60 sleeping pills, and said she loved me.
I got nowhere talking to her, and knew I needed to get help, so I got off the phone. I was panicked. She’s an Internet friend, so her home address wasn’t at hand. I found her web page, but it was in French.
My husband asked, “Didn’t she just send a package?” I dug through the waste basket and found the wrapping paper.
I called the long distance operator, and said I must have the police in a small town in France for an emergency. There were two towns with that name, but by using the postal code, the French operator gave us the number for the police (gendarmes) in the right town. The US operator stayed on the phone with me until we reached the police.
The first gendarme I talked with spoke no English, and said no one there spoke English. I had two years of French in high school and a year of Spanish in college, so you can imagine how much French and Spanish I don’t speak. I spoke my very bad French, throwing in Spanish in hopes something would make sense, then repeated the address and my friend’s name and address over and over.
My husband suggested finding a French-English dictionary on the Internet. That helped, but not much; it took forever to translate a word. If I was quiet for a few seconds trying to think of something to say, the first gendarme said “Allo?”. Then he put another officer with some English on the line, then a third gendarme who spoke a bit more came on the phone.
It was difficult to explain to him that I was calling from America. When the third gendarme finally understood that we were dealing with a potential suicide, I just about burst into tears. It seemed the phone conversation had taken forever.
Four gendarmes showed up at my friend’s house 25 minutes after she had called me, and took her to have her stomach pumped.
And now? She’s OK. She’s going on with her life and fighting the battles she has to fight. She’s alive, and I am so thankful for the operators and gendarmes who made this possible.
I know these three gendarmes must have been shaking their heads over the “crazy American”, but they never hung up on me. They kept working to understand. I am so grateful to these three men who tried so hard to talk to me, and stayed on the line until they grasped the problem. Thank you all — for getting there in time.]]>HeroicStories4:19One Last Cardhttps://heroicstories.org/one-last-card/
Fri, 13 Jul 2018 15:00:16 +0000https://heroicstories.org/?p=5923https://heroicstories.org/one-last-card/#respondhttps://heroicstories.org/one-last-card/feed/0<p>A complete stranger takes the time to notify everyone in the address book of a friend's passing. </p>
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Maryland, USA

In 1990, my wife Katie and I were transferred from Maryland to London by an engineering company for which I was working. She was a little worried about moving to a foreign country. Because we had only been married a year, the move could’ve been an additional source of stress.
However, we found a flat in a nice suburb near the Thames River. I started work in my new position, and Katie began getting accustomed to our new habitat. London turned out to be a wonderful place to live. Contrary to their reputation for being somewhat reserved, our neighbors proved to be friendly and quite interested in the new American arrivals.
Although some areas of the city attract large numbers of U.S. expatriates because of the presence of American schools, we lived on a thoroughly English street with turn-of-the-century Victorian houses and many long-term residents. Peter, who lived downstairs, had been in the area for 40 years and knew practically everybody. We became friends, and he hosted frequent chats over tea with Katie and whatever neighbors happened to stop in.
In particular, one fellow named Jim Morton became a regular visitor. He was almost 80, a widower and retired cartoonist with few relatives. He was a delightful man, with many funny stories and a real affinity for people. Although age and arthritis had slowed him down and made cartooning more difficult, he still loved his art.
In 1992, our son was born and Jim began an annual tradition of creating hand-drawn and colored birthday cards for him. Perhaps they were really for us, since Matthew hadn’t quite reached an appreciative age!
Every year Jim hand delivered another special creation, customized for whatever Matthew had been doing lately. The cards clearly took a lot of effort to make, and we were always touched by his thoughtfulness.
In 1995, my company’s contract ended and we had to return to the U.S. Although we were going “home,” Katie and I had extremely mixed feelings about departing. After spending five of our six married years in London, it felt more like home than Maryland. We kept in touch with our English friends, but distance made keeping up with daily events rather difficult.
About a year after we came back, a letter arrived with an unfamiliar return address. Inside was a note from one of Jim’s neighbors, informing us that he had passed away after a household accident.
This complete stranger had taken the initiative to go through Jim’s address book and write individual notes to each person. We were upset about Jim’s death. Yet we were very grateful that someone was kind and concerned enough to make sure that all of his friends and acquaintances knew what had happened.
It was such a simple act, but it showed that Jim was special to others besides us, and that his passing was not left unnoticed.]]>HeroicStories4:06